


Proxy

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clubbing, Father/Son Incest, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-30 02:56:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10867593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Thranduil only picks up a very specific type of boy.





	Proxy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ephers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephers/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for ephers’s “5. “Well. Yell, scream, say something. Anything” Thrandolas” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/160417565360/prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The second he’s inside, his ears pop, and the pounding rhythm makes it nearly impossible to think straight. Thranduil stands just before the doors, trying to let his head settle. He’s getting too old for this nonsense. But it’s the only way to get what he wants—or as close to that as possible—and he sucks it up.

The dance floor is as packed as always. He has to elbow his way through the crowd, sneering every time a Man or dwarf should push him back. The other elves he minds less. Everyone is as lightly disguised as him, but he can tell races, at least, beyond the simple masks strung over everyone’s eyes. The masquerade itself is hardly his style, but he needs the anonymity. And he needs to be able to have that in others.

He feels horribly guilt as he scans the pulsing masses he weaves through. Yet not quite enough to stop. He needs someone _right_ , someone whose mask can complete the picture: be there to cover up the last piece of the puzzle that can never be what Thranduil wants it to. He can picture the right face, but he needs the hair and body, even chin if possible, to be relatively similar. He immediately discards anyone who isn’t blond, anyone who has their hair cut short of their middle back, and anyone with so much as a slight wave to it. He needs a male, pale skin, pointed ears, a lithe body, and strong countenance. The blaring music covers voices, forcing everyone to shout, but he still wants somewhere near the right timber, the right inflection. No one too young, no one too old, no one too silly or too stern. It’s always a difficult search, but he tends to find suitable fill-ins eventually.

Finally, he spots tonight’s mark at the bar, bent over the counter with a long glass in hand. Thranduil prefers his boys to drink, but it isn’t necessary. While he always entertains the notion of bringing them home to share a bottle of wine atop his bed, he never goes through with it. It would involve removing the mask, shattering the illusion, and possibly getting caught and having to explain his type. It’s obvious to anyone who knows him. He makes sure that no one does. 

He makes it to the counter, two empty chairs away, and winds closer to take the stool right next to the blond. The elf, partway through a sip, glances sideways at him. In profile, he’s perfect. His mask is dark and thick, perhaps made of velvet, hiding from just above his upper lit to past his hairline, ending in two pointed ears like some sort of fanciful feline. There’s a fine mesh over the eyeholes that disguises their colour, which is probably a blessing—Thranduil can pretend they’re blue, as clear and bright as his own. The rest of the elf is everything Thranduil wants, the body astonishingly close to all his fantasies. Even what little he can see of the jaw line is correct. The hair, brushed neatly down the boy’s black button-up, is dead on.

Over the roar around them, Thranduil offers, “Fancy another drink?” It’s not the most unique opener, but it usually works. Even masked, his looks do his work for him. He doesn’t care enough for these stand-ins to go for full seduction, though he knows he could if he tried. The younger elf does a none-too-subtle sweep of his body, then seems to decide what they always do.

The blond nods, grinning pleasantly with plush, pink lips that look wondrously soft, and he calls back, “I was hoping you would.”

Thranduil lifts a brow before realizing that can’t be seen and instead drawls, “Oh?”

“I’ve seen you here before,” the boy admits. His voice is strained and has to be, but what Thranduil can hear of it, he likes.

He returns, leaning in so he doesn’t have to yell quite so loud, “If I’d seen you here before, you wouldn’t have had to pay for that first drink.”

The boy laughs delightedly, though there’s something sly about his grin. It’s familiar, and it only fans Thranduil’s interest. This is the best one of all the other substitutes. He leans back in and turns to say directly in Thranduil’s ear, “I wasn’t sure I was your type.” He smells faintly of some fruit-scented cologne, or maybe that’s his drink.

Thranduil slickly wraps an arm around his waist, daring to splay a large hand over his hip, and purrs close enough for his lips to brush the boy’s ear, “You’re _exactly_ my type.” He flicks out his tongue for emphases, catching along the supple shell, and the boy squirms in his seat, head tilting back to groan. The position hides Thranduil’s smirk, which is just as well; it comes on thick. This was too easy. They usually are, but that doesn’t dull his satisfaction. He withdraws slowly but keeps his arm looped around the boy’s middle, meaning to hail a bartender.

Before he gets the chance, the boy calls, “Would you mind holding off on that drink? I think I’d rather do this before you change your mind.” Thranduil gives him a curious look—even with the precarious line Thranduil’s walking, he doesn’t tend to waffle. Short of this boy asking to bring a dwarf into the mix, there’s not a lot he could do to dissuade Thranduil at this point.

He still leans forward, like it’s a challenge to keep Thranduil’s interest, and brushes his lips over Thranduil’s. There’s an instant spark of connection, an instant thrum of _want_. Thranduil lifts a hand to fist in the boy’s hair, holding him in while Thranduil deepens it, swiping expertly across the boy’s lips and prying them open. He thrusts his tongue inside, swirls around, and promptly sucks the other tongue into his mouth. The boy moans filthily, arching into him, and Thranduil’s crotch stirs—if he could, he’d throw this lovely creature right across the counter and fuck him on the spot. 

But alas, Thranduil can’t afford to be kicked out of the club—it’s the only place he can practice his traitorous desires. He pulls away again to kiss the boy’s cheek, and then Thranduil catches his hand and tugs him out of his chair, off through the crowd towards the back. The boy’s hand is warm, and he keeps close, eagerly following the winding trip Thranduil takes him on. Six of the eight rooms along the far wall already have the neon ‘occupied’ sign glowing, and Thranduil fishes his premium membership card out to swipe over the panel by the seventh. The door clicks open, though Thranduil can’t hear the beep over everything else. The boy slips right inside without any hesitation at all—Thranduil knows he’s got a wild one. That’s just as well—the person he _really_ wants, at least in his head, wouldn’t be shy about it. He wants a fierce, bold partner, even if they’re always younger, and Thranduil knows he has the ultimate control.

Thranduil follows, shuts the door firmly behind him, and takes in the boy again, glowing in only the florescent ceiling lights instead of the multi-coloured kaleidoscope that scatters across the dance floor. He’s just as beautiful here, though a part of Thranduil would like to see his face to complete the picture. Thranduil fills in the rest in his mind: all the soft angles, pale cheeks, slightly sloping nose and piercing blue eyes. The rest of the room—all black with a large sofa and table for drinks—is inconsequential. It’s a small space, nothing compared to his manor or even the back seat of his limousine, but it’s safer here. It doesn’t matter that it’s crude and filthy. This boy was worth coming for. Thranduil grabs him suddenly by the wrist and spins him right against the wall, then slams into him to pin him there. Thranduil ducks down to force a steaming kiss, and the elf clings tightly to his shoulders. 

The music’s muffled in here, and Thranduil’s grateful for it—even if he’s dreading hearing a different voice, he welcomes all the little noises—the whining, the gasping, the way the boy moans as Thranduil fills him deep with tongue. Thranduil thrusts a knee between his thighs and grinds their bodies together—he can feel the outline of a hard cock trapped in the boy’s jeans. He’s just as aroused. He rocks them together as he devours the boy’s mouth, and he slowly makes his way over to nip the boy’s chin, to mouth at his jaw, and to kiss down his throat. Thranduil tugs the boy’s collar open and starts biting and sucking a lewd hickey into the blond’s neck, and the boy arches into him, groaning desperately, “ _Ada_.”

Thranduil stiffens. He jerks away all at once, wrenching back to _stare_ at the gorgeous creature he’s ensnared. The boy seems to understand what he’s done wrong, and he hurriedly corrects, “I... forgive me, I just have a fetish...” But it’s too late. Now that Thranduil can truly _hear_ it, that voice is unmistakable. 

He reaches up to rip the mask away—the feeble strings that held it snap in two. Thranduil tosses the hollow shell to the floor and stares at the reveal. A part of his mind snarls that he should’ve known. Of course. Everything was _too_ perfect. He let his desires cloud his judgment. The boy’s eyes are indeed blue, and they look at Thranduil with almost as much guilt as he feels. 

Thranduil mutters, unbelieving, “Legolas...”

Legolas bites his lip. It just draws Thranduil to the movement, and the thought that Thranduil was _in there_. He kissed his own son. Dual waves of searing nausea and pleasure simultaneously roar through him. Legolas tentatively lifts his hands to peel away Thranduil’s mask, although his expression doesn’t change, like he always knew it was Thranduil. Of course he would. Thranduil doesn’t understand how he could’ve been so foolish as to mistake his own son. Legolas tosses the mask against his own and steels over, telling him, “You can’t scold me for this, you know. You’re the one whose type is the same as your son.”

Thranduil wasn’t going to scold him. But now it seems like the better option. Thranduil wishes he’d raged and sent Legolas running; it would’ve been easier. Now he just feels sick. Legolas seems to see that, because his expression softens as he meets Thranduil’s gaze, and he quietly mutters, “I’m sorry.”

Thranduil takes a shaken step back. Legolas steps after him, reaching for his arms, but Thranduil pulls away. Concern knits Legolas’ brow, and he repeats, “Ada, I’m sorry! This is all my fault... I knew you were coming here, and I recognized you immediately, and I just had to... I... wanted...” He stops, as though waiting for Thranduil to fill in the rest, but when Thranduil doesn’t manage a single sound, Legolas whines, “Well? Ada, say _something_. Yell, scream, anything...”

Thranduil’s reeling. He turns abruptly on his heels and marches over to the couch, plopping down. It sinks, the springs long since worn out. _He was going to fuck Legolas here._ The worst part is that he still wants to. He shakes his head and mutters, “I’m the one that’s sorry...”

“You should be.” Thranduil looks up, to find Legolas grinning sadly, then coyly, then stalking towards him. “You kept this horrible secret to yourself, when we could’ve shared that sin together.” He doesn’t look like he finds anything horrible about it, and then he’s reached Thranduil, and he’s kneeling down, sitting at Thranduil’s feet like Thranduil fantasized about too many times before. He leans up to kiss Thranduil’s cheek, lingering when Thranduil doesn’t turn away, and then comes around to kiss Thranduil’s mouth.

Thranduil’s appalled at just how _right_ it feels. 

He’s grabbed Legolas’ hair and pulled Legolas in again before he can stop himself. He’s wanted it too long to resist. Legolas mewls happily and surges back into him, which makes Thranduil marvel at his skill, then wonder through a stab of jealousy: _how many others has he kissed?_ Has he come here to look for substitutes, like Thranduil has? The thought of just how many other men have had the pleasure of fucking him makes Thranduil burn. He snakes his tongue into Legolas’ mouth again, wanting to claim it for his own, and Legolas whines and leans into every little touch. Legolas is so pliant in his hands. Legolas’ hair feels exactly as good as he thought it would. Legolas tastes better. Thranduil keeps telling himself he needs to end the kiss, but he _can’t_. Legolas is a little minx that keeps pulling him back.

Legolas is the first one to part them, but it’s only far enough to keep their foreheads pressed together and whisper across his lips, “We should do this at home.”

Thranduil croaks, This?”

“As much or as little as you like.” But Legolas looks very much like he wants the first part, and he wants it _now_. He looks delectable. There’s a clear mark on his neck from Thranduil’s teeth. 

Thranduil lets out a ragged sigh and rubs the bridge of his nose. He mutters bitterly, “When did you become the stable one?”

Legolas quips too easily, “When I learned to accept that I’m in love with my own father. But I’m not entirely to blame for that. Surely you know how handsome and tempting you are.” Thranduil drops his hand, unsure if he wants to glare or not.

At the half sly, half hopeful look on Legolas’ face, Thranduil finds himself musing, “You inherited it all.” 

Legolas grins broadly and returns, “Evidently. It was quite easy to seduce you. ...But then, I’d already deduced that when I saw what types of elves you were bedding.”

Now Thranduil regrets every one. The thought of Legolas being here those nights, with other men slobbering all over him, makes up Thranduil’s mind. He can’t leave Legolas alone to be claimed by another. He doesn’t have it in him.

He pulls Legolas into him again for another kiss, just as passionate as the last. 

Then he lets Legolas pull him up and tug him towards the door, where they collect their masks and go.


End file.
